Goshen Sagas: Days of Strife

Prologue

The sparse savannah was cut by the wide and deep Ran-nu River. On its north bank, the sounds of combat echoed out across the plains. A disciplined force has been working long and hard to slaughter and subjugate the indigenous populace on these foreign fields. Again the foreigners have engaged the natives to continue the battle that has pulsed for the better part of the day.

"Forward!" The command rang out once again, the tan-faced infantry advanced. Like a wave, they pushed against their enemy, men dark of face and riding agile but exhausted snow-colored mounts. The infantry thrust their spears as they closed with the cavalry, the spearheads found their spots in the mounts and their riders. Pressed back, the mounted forces withdrew, whirled their lines, and retaliated, releasing volleys of javelins at the foreign spearmen. A great many of the short spears finding marks in the opposing army's black and red clothed chests. As the battle dragged on, the copious amounts of the fallen littered the whole of the field while the wounded men and mounts cried out, filling the ears of friend and foe.

The battle lulled once again and the two forces fell back a short way to rest their men for another melee.

"Sir, we are edging the enemy back, they are nearing the river's shore," A black and red clothed runner announced, his black hair soaked in sweat from the exertion of his duties and the heat on the plains.

A grizzled man paused a moment from pouring over documents to press his hair, black splashed with white, out of his eyes with his hands, their tan flesh leathery from his years of labor. His caramel eyes fluttered as he read each line of his papers. His face, marked with scars from the numerous battles he'd fought, the battles he won, crinkled as he mouthed along. This was his command, and he would win again.

"Tiki!" the commander called to a finely dressed young man, his attendant.

"My cloak," the man commanded Tiki.

The commander laced up his glistening black armor, dented from years of use. His attendant threw the Crimson cape over the shoulders of the aged man, fastening it to his armor, then presented his sword. The blade was old but sharp and strong as ever, shining silver white from its metal.

"Gather the men."

The man waved off the messenger. He knew the situation, he had planned for it.

Out on the field, the spearmen broke their press against the cavalry and the two forces fell back as they neared the banks of the river.

"Men, I know you've fought hard but it's not over yet, so take pride in yourselves, and show the enemy your strength," the commander called to his weary men.

"For Gawei!" He cried.

"For Gawei!" The men echoed.

With renewed vigor the Gawei spearmen pressed on the cavalry, as the commander lead them in a charge. The commander, in his black and crimson garb, flew straight up the middle of the field and cut down one of the mounts as they engaged. The spearmen slashed and stabbed hard against the mounted men, while the cavalry peppered the commander's forces with javelins, still the spearmen pushed their enemy back.

"This was the sign," Colin Mino thought to himself. He was a man in his prime, like the rest of the spearmen his skin was a natural tan, his shaved head beaded with sweat from the heat. His once frenzied beard was now tamed by the water and his clothing was soaked from the swim. He wiped the water from his eyes, their chocolate color shines in the approaching twilight.

"Forward!" Mino cried to his men and rushed from the reeds of the bank, while the soldiers did as they were bid. One hundred men charged into the rear of the enemy, sending the riders and mounts into a panic. The new force slashed and stabbed as the main army joined the fray and redoubled their assault. As the spears of both sides failed, the forces switched to back up weapons.

"Gods damn it!" Mino shouted as he thrust his spear into a dismounted warrior as the warrior hurled a spear.

In moments the mounted men broke, whatever remained of the cavalry began to flee from the field. Some attempted to push through the spears and were slaughtered to a man, others broke out and fled west along the river, and still some others even attempted to cross the river and left their mounts to drown when they could no longer stand the current.

"Victory!" The red-cloaked commander of the winning spearmen shouted. He thrusted his sword into the air to encourage Mino and the others, blood slowly pouring from his eye.

Around the victorious forces lay the bodies of hundreds of men from both armies. In the water was another great many bodies, carcasses of the mounts and their riders choking the river.

Mino looked at one of the beasts and riders lying dead at his feet. The beast was once a grand animal, standing to the shoulder, its head crowned with an intricate antler sprouting from the center of it's head. But no longer, now one of the antlers lay on the ground, the other chipped and cracked, the beasts white fur splattered red with its own blood and that of its rider.

"Doharn, The Ran-nu call them," one of Mino's soldiers stated as he kicked over the rider's corpse, rifling through his clothes for valuables. The dead Ran-nu's dark face, now paler, drained in death, is frozen in a scream. His mouth was caked with his own blood. His black eyes stareed in anguish. A broken spear stuck in his chest while his pick, made of a wooden shaft and doharn antler, was still in hand.

Two winters had passed since the battle as Mino returned home from the forest after another walk. The village was calm, tranquil, the years of battle lay far in his past. In front of him was a small wooden shack, backdropped by a lush green forest, while smoke poured from the chimney. As he approached the hut, an infant child, a boy of little more than a year, crawled to him and grabbed at his leg.

"Moto my boy," said Mino as he bent and picked up his son, cradling him in his arms.

"Victory," Mino thought as he held his son to his chest.